


Out of Every Nowhere

by thetimemoves (WriteOut)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends with Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson in Afghanistan, John Whump, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-03-13 08:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18937402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteOut/pseuds/thetimemoves
Summary: In the end, the decision to leave London was an easy one.





	Out of Every Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HPswl_cumbercookie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPswl_cumbercookie/gifts).



> An honest beta is a lifesaver and this story wouldn't exist without mine. Thank you, Splix!

***

Just when you think it's over  
Just when you think it's done  
Out of every nowhere  
You never see it come

I know the lines are showing  
I can't keep them in  
Like everybody's story  
It's written on the skin

I can feel the stars shooting through my heart like rain  
Leaving on the scars where the pleasure turns to pain  
Point me in a light  
Bright and shiny right direction  
And then take me home again

 _Rust_ , Echo & the Bunnymen

***

_"You owe me, Mycroft. You know that. You do this one thing for me and that’s the end of it. We are done.”_

_“I’m listening, John.”_

_“I’ve signed up with Doctors without Borders. Oh don’t look so surprised. I’m sure you had a hand in getting my application processed so quickly.”_

_Mycroft cleared his throat. “Well—“_

_“Afghanistan. I want to be assigned back to Afghanistan and quickly.”_

_Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”_

_John just stared at him, a flat expression on his face._

_“Consider it done, John.”_

*

And so it was. In the end, the decision to leave London was an easy one.

**__________**

A year later, John was back in the desert as he had asked, thanks to Mycroft’s discreet interference. Médecins Sans Frontières sent him on assignment to Boost Hospital in Lashkar Gah, Helmand Province. His old stomping grounds, but this time he wore a white coat, not Army fatigues. This time he carried only a stethoscope, not a gun. He wasn’t far from the front lines, however; the hospital saw many patients affected by the fighting. John didn’t mind, though. He loved his work and he thrived on the adrenaline, as always.

Being back in Afghanistan felt right. He’d found himself here once, when he was younger and still looking for his place in the world. John hoped he could find himself once more and this time, leave on his own terms. Months of long days and short nights meant a constant state of exhaustion, but he was glad for the hard work to keep his mind and body occupied. It was a good sort of tired, even if it didn’t completely erase his intense grief.

There was an easy camaraderie with the people here, something John hadn’t felt since his days in service. He worked well with his fellow doctors and nurses, and he was popular with the hospital staff as someone who was reliable and calm in a crisis. He liked to think his own combat experience gave him an edge. Being so close to an active war zone meant bombings and shootings were frequent; his ability to stay focused during such times was essential. Making friends wasn’t a focus, however; John wasn’t ready to open his heart back up to anyone, friend or lover, and so he kept people from getting too close. He worked hard, had the occasional drink with colleagues, and tried not to think of anything past the boundaries of the Helmand River.

Despite being surrounded by people day and night, John never felt more alone.

**__________**

“Doctor, there’s someone here asking for you. Hamad didn’t get his name, I’m sorry.” A young man stuck his head into John’s office and smiled in apology when a startled John looked up at the interruption. “Is it a bad time?”

John pushed back from his desk and rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but he had spent the last couple of hours on paperwork and a break would do him good. Besides, in the nearly nine months he’d been at Boost, he’d not had one person ask for him that wasn’t a patient or coworker. He had no idea who could be interested in him and he was intrigued.

“No, it’s fine. I can see him now. Is he waiting downstairs?” John stood and cracked his back. The office was small, and while he shared it with three others, he had it to himself that morning. Solitude at work was a rare thing and he relished the small chunks he got.

“Yes, he just arrived. He asked for you by name but wouldn’t say what he wanted.”

“Did Hamad say what he looked like?”

“A tall chap, he said. Very white.”

John shut down his laptop and stowed it in his desk. “That’s fine, Pierre, thanks. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

His office was on the second floor of the hospital and so he jogged down six flights of stairs, not wanting to wait for the finicky elevator. The hospital was bustling, as always, but it had been a relatively calm day. There hadn’t been any bombings in the vicinity recently, just a handful of fighters and civilians with battle wounds, which helped. He wove his way through the throngs of people filling the hallways and was only stopped twice, by a tech with a question about a scan he just took and by a nurse who wanted to give him an update on a patient he’d treated two days before. The nurse clearly wanted to chat, but John apologized and said he was expected elsewhere.

The lobby was packed with people waiting to be treated and friends and family members waiting to hear about loved ones. Some waited more patiently than others and the constant hum of conversation was broken at times by angry voices and frustrated wails. John scanned the large area, hoping to easily pick out the man Hamad described. Off to the side of the room, a tall and rather bulky man in a cream linen suit leaned against the wall. His shaggy white blond hair caught the sunlight streaming in from the windows and glowed, making him stand out in the crowd. _Very white_ , indeed. He was typing on his mobile, not paying attention to the people around him. It had to be him, John thought, and headed towards him. When the man saw John approach, he put his phone down but not away. He straightened up and moved away from the wall. The men dodged a group of people gathered in a huddle and met in the middle of the room.

The man stuck out his hand. “Sebastian Moran. And you must be the esteemed Doctor Watson. Pleased, mate.” 

John shook his hand. “John Watson. I heard you were asking for me.”

“Thanks for taking the time, doctor.”

“Please, just John. Let’s move out the way, yeah?” John turned and led Moran over to a less crowded corner. “I have to admit, I’m curious. I don’t get many visitors.”

“I’ve come a long way to meet you, John,” said Moran. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

A silent alarm somewhere in the back of John’s mind pinged. “That so. Like I said, I’m not used to visitors. Is there something I can help you with?”

“You could say that.”

John just raised an eyebrow.

“How long have you been here?”

John hesitated a moment, aware that Moran was not answering his question, but he decided to play along. “Almost nine months. Sometimes feels twice that long and sometimes feels like I got here yesterday. Been too busy to keep close track, that’s for sure.” John moved back a couple steps as two small children ran between them. “You could say time works differently here, I suppose.”

Moran stepped back as well and watched the kids run past before looking back at John. “Time does do that.” He glanced at his phone and quickly typed something out. “Speaking of, can we step outside for a minute? It’s rather loud in here, isn’t it?” He tucked the mobile in his shirt pocket.

John nodded. “Sure, I haven’t been outside in a few hours, could use some air myself.”

The men made their way outside, John once again taking the lead. He briefly closed his eyes as he walked out into the bright sunlight and let the intense heat wash over him. Even in late morning, it was sometimes too hot to be outside for long, but there was a breeze today that took some of the edge off. Expecting Moran to follow, John headed towards a group of benches nearby. There were people hanging about, but he spied an empty bench. Moran went off in the other direction instead. John, surprised, reversed course and followed.

Moran walked to the alley on the far side of the building and stopped beneath some trees that provided generous shade. He pulled out his phone again, typed some more, and stuck it back in his shirt pocket. A sheen of sweat covered his forehead, but he didn’t seem overly bothered by the heat.

“Seems quieter over here. More space,” said Moran in answer to John’s unasked question. He took out a cigarette and lit it, gesturing with his hand. “You want?”

“No, thank you. That’s one bad habit I managed to avoid.” He smiled, more out of an ingrained politeness than to take the sting out of his words.

“Ah, bad habits. I’ve got my fair share, unfortunately.” He winked. “Or fortunately, depending on the day. Can’t say I walk the straight and narrow, but I’m not complaining.” He glanced at his watch.

Across the way, two men appeared. They stopped for a moment, apparently in the middle of an argument, and then resumed walking down the alley. John watched them for a moment, distracted by the loud voices. His gaze narrowed as the men approached a parked lorry and paused by it for a moment. When they moved on, he turned back to Moran.

“You still haven’t said why you’ve come to see me.” John was sharp. “I don’t mean to rush, but I do have rounds to make, I’m sorry. It seems you’re on a tight schedule too.”  

Moran smirked. “You sound faint with anticipation.”

“Absolutely am. What can I do for you? Why are you here?”   

“I could ask the same of you, mate.” Moran took a long drag and exhaled slowly. “You’re very far from home.”

John gave Moran a sideways glance. Moran’s familiar tone was not sitting well with him. “That’s relevant, how?” He crossed his arms.

“Why Afghanistan, of all places? What with your… history, I mean.”

The alarm in John’s head now went off like a klaxon. “I can see this is going nowhere. I have work to do.” He nodded at Moran and began to walk back towards the hospital entrance.

“I can see why he kept you around.”

John stopped, spine rigid, and turned to face Moran again. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re stubborn and you’re loyal and most importantly, you keep your mouth shut.”

“Pardon me?” John cocked his head to the side and clenched his fist.   

“I can see why he likes you.”

“You’ve lost me, _mate_.” John’s voice tightened on the last word. “Care to tell me what you’re talking about?”

“Surely you’re not that dim, doctor. How disappointing. I’m talking about Sherlock Holmes, boy genius himself.”

“All right, we’re stopping here.” John pointed at Moran and moved closer. “Who the _hell_ are you?” John hadn’t heard that name since London. It was a shock to hear it now.

“Oh, if you insist, doctor.” Moran flicked his cigarette toward the wall and stood taller. He was no longer smirking.

“Oh, I surely do,” hissed John. “Tell me who the fuck you are. Now.”

“Colonel Sebastian Moran, 1st Bangalore Pioneers. I’d say at your service, Captain Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, but that’s not really true now, is it. I promised my services to someone else a long time ago.” He pulled out his phone one more time and hit a button. “You might have heard of him. James Moriarty.”

Before John could react, a loud boom knocked him off balance. At the end of the alley, the parked lorry was smoking, but still looked partially intact.

“Ah, perfect timing.” Moran glanced down at his phone again. “Come now, I don’t think you’ll want to miss this next act. I know I don’t.”

From the front of the hospital, voices were shouting. John grimaced at the dust filling the air and started to move towards the lorry.

Moran gave John an abrupt shove. “Showtime, doctor!” He sprinted away.

Too surprised by the sudden move to brace himself, John fell hard, unable to keep his head from smacking against the ground. Stunned into stillness, he tried to catch his breath. He looked over to see Moran ducking behind one of the barriers lining the hospital.

His head throbbed painfully and dimly he wondered about a concussion. He could feel blood dripping down the side of his face. A cut on his head or maybe scraped skin when he went down.

Another explosion rocked the air and rained down more dust and debris. Something sharp sliced into his side. John struggled to sit up, but the pain in his head was intense and he slumped back down and rested his head on the ground. Christ, his head hurt, and so did his bad shoulder. He must have aggravated his old injury when he fell. He felt an absurd urge to laugh. How fucking ironic. And then he heard it. That voice. Oh god, that beloved voice.

“Sebastian Moran! Show yourself, you coward!”

John blinked, not trusting his eyes. He must have hit his head harder than he thought. Emerging from the smoky, dusty air less than two hundred feet away was Sherlock Holmes, who was looking at him with equal disbelief. John wondered if he was having a visual hallucination in addition to an auditory one. Sherlock wasn’t wearing his coat. He _always_ wore that damn Belstaff. This Sherlock was in loose, short-sleeve tee and khaki trousers smeared with something that looked suspiciously like blood. That wasn’t right—Sherlock never wore khaki anything. Not to mention, he was meant to be dead and buried. But this Sherlock was here and the look of panic on his face was one John never remembered seeing before either. Not even at the pool, not even at Baskerville.

“What a sight, eh boys? Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, together again!” Moran’s voice boomed from somewhere to John’s left.

“Your time is up! You are done!” Sherlock moved steadily down the alley.

Still not convinced he wasn’t having the mother of all hallucinations, John pushed himself up and managed to get on his knees. His head spun and for a moment he thought he would vomit. He reached up and gripped his shoulder, wincing at the sharp pain that lanced through him. He wobbled a bit but stayed mostly upright.

“JOHN! Get down!” Sherlock was frantic.

A third explosion, more shouting, more dust and debris. John watched as Moran stood up from behind the barrier. The smirk was back. He advanced towards John and pulled out a gun.

“You’re early, Sherlock Holmes! But now you get to watch me put a bullet in John Watson! Are you watching, Holmes? Watching a bullet end him just like I watched a bullet end James?”

Sherlock started to run. “This stops here, Moran!”

“You’re right about that! Say goodbye, Doctor Watson.” Moran aimed and fired.

For a second, John blipped into nothingness. Then a bright flare of agony shocked him back to the present. He yelled out and toppled over, helpless to do anything but watch as Moran came closer.

Sherlock screamed, a terrible noise.

A second gunshot was the last thing he heard before he lost consciousness.

**__________**

John opened his eyes and moved to sit up. Too dizzy to continue, he clutched the bed railing and gingerly lowered himself back down. He groaned at the wave of pain and nausea that swept over him. Not a single part of his body didn’t hurt in some way. Even his hair ached. The IV in his hand was likely for pain medication; he could only imagine how worse he’d be hurting once that wore off. His eyes were gritty, and he felt as if he had swallowed a mouthful of sand.

“Lie back, John. You’re in no state to move just yet.” Sherlock’s low voice came from a darkened corner of the room.

John turned his head towards that voice. The room was dim, most of the light coming from the machines next to John’s bed and a sliver from under the closed door. Sherlock sat about as far from John as possible and still be in the same room. John could make him out in the low light, but just barely.

“What time is it?” he croaked out. He couldn’t believe he was talking to Sherlock, Sherlock who had been dead for so long.

“1 am, Thursday. You’ve been here for about fifteen hours, in and out.”

“What year?”

Sherlock twitched, his eyes wide. “What?”

“What year is it?” John stared back, his own eyes as wide as he could make them.

“Oh god. John—“

 John snorted. Christ, whatever they had him on was strong.

“Not funny,” said Sherlock. His mouth was turned down.

John laughed again, this time with less humor. “No, _none_ of this is fucking funny, you lying bastard. When these drugs wear off, I’m going to kick your arse.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away. “You’ve a large knot on your head, but only a minor concussion. Some scrapes and cuts. You likely sprained your left shoulder, possibly even torn it, but another scan is scheduled. The bullet grazed your hip, more of a glancing wound than a serious injury, but they did need to do a spot of surgery. There will be a scar.” He took a breath, the recitation of John’s wounds clearly difficult for him. “You’re expected to make a complete recovery. Limp will be more than psychosomatic for a bit, however, so the arse-kicking might have to wait.”

“Well. Good to know I’m still in one piece. I have to admit I’m questioning my own sanity, though.”

“No need for that, John.” Sherlock’s voice was almost too low for John to hear.

“Fucking hell, is it really you? Are you really here?” John’s eyes filled and he hitched a breath.

“It’s really me and I’m really here.”

The tears spilled over. John swiped at his eyes and tried to clear his throat. “Get over here, you wanker. I can barely see you and I still don’t believe my own eyes.”

Sherlock didn’t move.

“Please… I need to see your face.”

Sherlock hesitated some more, then stood slowly. He dragged the metal chair closer to John’s bed, but stopped just out of arm’s reach. He sat back down and looked at John, his countenance guarded.

John stared back at his lost friend. Sherlock’s curls were shorn, his hair shorter than John had ever seen it and streaked with dirty blond. He had lost weight he couldn’t much afford to lose, although he was still more wiry than gaunt. A freshly scabbed-over cut crossed his forehead and John thought he spied a bit of a ropy scar below his collarbone. Dark circles under his eyes and deeper lines in his forehead made him look ten years older and so weary. Join the club, John thought to himself. But he still looked like himself, still looked like the man John had missed so much. He was scruffy and filthy, but he was alive and he was _here_.

Sherlock fidgeted under John’s concentration, then sighed and scooted his chair closer to the bed. The metal legs scraped loudly against the floor, making both men wince. Sherlock reached out and pinched John on the arm, hard.

“The fuck, Sherlock?”

“I’m not a ghost, John. Quit staring as though you’ve seen one.”

“I wonder why that is?”

Sherlock looked contrite, a novel expression. “John...”

“How many casualties?”

The question threw Sherlock. “Sorry?”

“The bombings, Sherlock. How many were killed?”

“Oh, no one. The IEDs were placed for maximum distraction, but minimal collateral damage. Moran’s phone was the trigger. There were some injuries, but only minor from what I’ve been told. You fared worse than anyone else, no thanks to the bullet Moran put in you.”

“What happened out there, really? Who the hell is Sebastian Moran? He came here and asked for me, but I’ve never heard of him before today.”

“Colonel Moran. The last major piece of Moriarty’s network. He was Moriarty’s second in command.” Sherlock paused and looked down at his hands for a moment. “I’ve been tracking him for months. Came close to him a few times, but he’s always managed to elude me.” He looked chagrined.

“So why would he come here? Why come after me? You were gone and Moriarty only cared about me when you were alive. And how the hell did you know he was here?”

“Moran was the sniper fixed on you at the pool. He was the sniper ready to take you out if I hadn’t jumped. He’s had a keen interest in you for a very long time.” A deep inhale. “When he found out I wasn't actually dead, he laid a clever trap for me and I walked right into it.”

“Wait, what do you mean if you hadn’t jumped?”

Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Moran knew I was on my way. He came to kill you and he wanted me to find you dead. I just happened to get here quicker than he imagined. One of his mercenaries saw me just after the first explosion and let Moran know I had arrived.”

“Christ, I don’t even know what to say here. I don’t understand any of this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shot up from the chair and began pacing.

“You have no idea, John. None. I saw him shoot you. I saw you fall and not move. I thought you were dead. Dead,” he hissed.

“You thought I was dead, hmm? Not a good feeling, that. Right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock covered his mouth with a shaking hand. “You were shot in front of me. I saw you fall,” he repeated.

John sucked in a sharp breath that triggered a spasm of coughing. His whole body shook, and the pain was exquisite. He curled up, clutched his stomach, and tried to calm himself down. His head felt as if it was about to explode.

Alarmed, Sherlock came over and picked up the paper cup of water next to John’s bed. “Here, drink.” He held the cup up to John’s mouth and tipped some water in.

John greedily gulped until the cup was empty. The coughing tapered off into a wheeze.

Sherlock put the cup down and backed off. “Better?”

John shook his head. His pain and his emotions were a war zone and he didn’t know which one would come out on top.

“No. Just, no. That’s not on, Sherlock Holmes. This is not a contest you will win. You saw me fall? You thought I was dead? I saw you die. I stood there and watched you jump off the roof. I saw your bleeding body on the sidewalk. You called yourself a fraud, to me, your biggest believer and your best friend, and then you killed yourself while I watched. You killed yourself.”                          

Sherlock stopped pacing during John’s outburst and sat back down. He hunched over and placed his head in his hands. A tremor ran through his body.

Drained beyond measure, John let his building rage die out. He reached out a hand, palm turned up. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock looked up, his eyes wet and rimmed with red. He stared at John’s hand and did not move.

John gestured towards Sherlock’s hand. “Give here.”

Sherlock was as still as a stone.

“Your hand. Please.”

Sherlock sucked in his bottom lip and placed his hand, palm down, in John’s. Slowly, so slowly, he clasped their fingers together.

“D’you know, the last I time I touched you, the last time I held your hand, you were dead?” John’s voice was conversational, but his tight grip on Sherlock’s hand belied his tone. “I didn’t get to hold it for very long either. I was pulled away almost immediately. But I thought about it for the longest time after.” He sniffed.

“I’m sorry, John, truly I am.”

“How… no, why? Why, Sherlock?”

“I had no other choice, I swear. I swear it.”

“And I was left in the dark, again. Left behind. Again. Again, Sherlock!” John took a deep breath with no coughing this time. “I’m tired of being left behind.”

Sherlock looked down at their joined hands, at the IV in John's. “I didn’t want to leave you, please believe me.”

“Is it done? Are you finished with whatever kept you away from me?”

“There are some minor players still out there, but Moran was the last serious contender and he’s no longer a threat. Mycroft’s people weren’t far behind me and they’re very good at what they do. As am I. I’ve done what I needed to and you’re safe now.”

"Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock shook his head, still looking at their hands. “Your hand…”

“What about it?”

“It’s tanned above the wrist now. You’re clearly not in military any longer with that hair…”

John huffed and rubbed his thumb against Sherlock’s.

“…but you’ve been in service nonetheless. You’re a good man, John.”

“I just wanted to get away. From Baker Street, from London, from memories of you.”

“Why here, John? I don’t understand.”

“I had my own reasons. One of these days I’ll tell you. And you’ll tell me yours, right?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I promise.”

“Right, that’s good. Thank you.”

They were quiet for a while, watching each other and soaking up their renewed connection. Noises from the world outside the room filtered in, faint footsteps, a gurney's squeaky wheel, someone's laughter. John shifted a bit and marveled at Sherlock's hand in his. He thought about what he had been through since Sherlock's fall, and how he had changed. He didn't know Sherlock's story, not yet, but he could see the changes in him as well, written on his marked skin and reflected in his softened demeanor.

Still keeping his hand in John’s, Sherlock suddenly moved from his chair to the edge of the bed. He raised his other hand and gently cupped John’s scraped cheek. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. I never remember to get the milk and I have a habit of keeping odd body bits in the fridge. Would any of that bother you?”

Taken aback at both the familiar words and the warm hand against his face, John stilled. Sherlock had never touched him like this, with such sweet intent. He hoped it wasn’t some sort of aftershock reaction because he liked it. A lot. It was all fine. If John was honest with himself, it had been fine for a long time but those barely-explored desires died along with Sherlock. His eyes welled up. He reached out and softly dragged his finger across Sherlock’s plump bottom lip. “You know, I don’t believe it would.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed briefly, and his shoulders relaxed. “Baker Street is ready for us when we’re ready to go back to it.”

“Back to the work?”

“Back to the work.” He paused. “And… other things. Maybe. I’ve missed you.”

“There are so many conversations we should have first, Sherlock. I still want to kick your arse a bit, you know. Christ, we’re a mess.”

Sherlock smiled and his tired face lit up. “It’s who we are, John, and we love it.”

John smiled back and felt the weight of the last year start to slip off his shoulders. “I always did think you were the brilliant one. I suppose you have it all worked out.”

Sherlock caressed John’s cheek once more and then reached down and took John’s other hand so that he was holding both. “When you’re done here, will you come back to London? Come back to me?”

In the end, the decision was an easy one. “Always, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Rust_ by Echo & the Bunnymen was on constant replay while I was writing this. The song is so Johnlocky, I can barely stand it. I encourage you to [take a listen here](https://youtu.be/rPWXbkzBqE0) (original version) or [this gorgeous, pared-down and more world-weary version](https://youtu.be/YYgguh9ViqM) (released last year), if you're interested, and hear the words that helped inspire this story.


End file.
